


Tea and Other Stuff

by ColdColdHeart



Series: The Key to Oslov [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Besha Learns a Lesson, Blow Jobs, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Politics, Porn With Plot, Power Dynamics, Power Exchange, Power Imbalance, Power Play, Prostitution, Sex for Favors, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism, not much angst for once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-12 12:30:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16872954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColdColdHeart/pseuds/ColdColdHeart
Summary: Besha felt his jaw tighten; he was not going to leave without a bit of excitement.Gersha and Tilrey really need Besha’s support in the Council chamber. So they invite him over for tea, because tea is the lubricant of civilization.This is the closest I get to PWP (there’s still some plot). It takes place a couple of months after “The Slap” but is relatively stand-alone. Special thanks for mugi_says_eep and everyone else who suggested this threesome had further possibilities, for your gracious incitement.My updates are alsoon Tumblr.Thanks for reading! <3





	Tea and Other Stuff

When Tilrey walked into the sauna, Besha rolled his eyes. “I suppose Gersha sent you to give me orders again?”

Tilrey sat down and stretched out, naked from the waist up, knowing perfectly well the Councillor was noticing how the sweat slicked the sculpted planes of his chest. “I didn’t know my presence had become unpleasant to you, Fir.”

“Oh, I always enjoy the view.” Besha was staring at him with unabashed lust; his jaw tensed as he draped his towel over his erection. “But it’s not like I get to _do_ anything about it,” he went on peevishly. “What does Gersha want me to do tonight—go to the Lounge and badger Verán about some stupid do-gooder bill?”

Tilrey licked his lips. “No, Fir. He’d like you to come and take tea with him. With _us_.”

“Tea, eh?” The Councillor’s eyes narrowed cannily. “Will you be serving it? Like old times?”

“Like old times.”

“And will, uh, there be more than one item on the menu? Two attractive items, perhaps?”

“That depends on Gersha, Fir.” Tilrey rose, ignoring Besha’s smirk, and turned to leave. “We’ll expect you in an hour, Fir. Don’t be late.”

***

“I feel all wrong about this,” Gersha objected, as water began to steam inside the boiler. “If we keep on trading sexual currency for votes, we’re no better than Verán. I mean, you pretty much implied you’d have sex with him, didn’t you?”

Tilrey measured the leaves into the strainer. “I pretty much implied _we’d_ have sex with him. I don’t think he’s forgotten the last time that happened.”

“But that was a one-time thing, and it was _years_ ago, and—well, I thought it was over.” Gersha blushed, because “over” was the wrong word. Every time he saw or spoke with his colleague, which was far oftener than he’d like, he recalled how it felt to ride Besha’s slight, shuddering body while the man moaned and cursed and begged for more. The “one-time thing” was burned into his brain, and he wasn’t even sure it was a _bad_ memory.

But Besha had been so sapped that night, and somehow they’d gotten the upper hand, and—well, it couldn’t possibly be the same a second time. It wasn’t as if Besha’s rapturous reaction to having Gersha’s cock inside him had improved the man’s manners any. The way he sometimes looked at Gersha in the Council chambers, practically leering, made Gersha shudder.

In his agitation, he knocked a teaspoon off the counter. Tilrey picked it up and twined a reassuring arm around his waist, drawing him closer. “I wouldn’t have suggested this if it weren’t necessary, Fir. We’re approaching the full Council vote on the Notification bill, and we’ll never push it through without Besha’s _enthusiastic_ support. I’ve been watching him; right now, he’s positively dragging his feet on everything you ask him for.”

Gersha couldn’t deny that, but he groaned. “Couldn’t we just . . . I don’t know, threaten to expose his secret again? Must we also whore ourselves out to him?”

Tilrey stiffened a little. “I wouldn’t call it whoring—which is something I know a bit about, Fir. I’d call it maintaining a bond. Fear keeps Besha in line for now, but he knows how to wriggle out of traps, and if we want him to be a long-term ally, he needs incentives. The best way to keep his loyalty is by training him to associate us with things he enjoys. If he looks at you or me and sees satisfaction, he’ll _want_ to support our agenda.

“But of course,” he added in a more distant tone, releasing Gersha to switch off the boiler, “you don’t have to satisfy him personally. If you’re willing to watch while I do it, I’m sure he’ll accept that as well.”

Gersha made an ugly sound in his throat at the thought of watching Tilrey “satisfy” Besha. “Are you sure there’s no other way?”

From the other room, the buzzer sounded. Tilrey poured the steaming water into the kettle, enveloping them both briefly in a vapor redolent of pine forests. “Look, love,” he said, “you enjoyed this last time. I _know_ you did. So just trust me, and I’ll find a way to make it good again. Okay? Now, why don’t you go get the door?”

***

Besha was in his most obnoxious mood today, which probably meant he was having a hard time with his wife or kids or Verán or life in general.

“Ah, the love nest,” he announced as he stepped into the living room. “This place practically stinks of mutual adoration. Tell me, does your nauseating honeymoon ever end?”

With that, he threw himself on a couch, as if he were at home, and held out one hand for a tea tumbler. Tilrey supplied it wordlessly, though he knew Gersha was looking on with distaste.

“I haven’t managed to catch the two of you actually groping each other in the Sector,” Besha continued, taking a gulp, “but I know it’s happening. I can practically smell it on you. I don’t suppose you’d mind giving me a little demonstration?”

Gersha snorted in his most prideful way, which Tilrey knew Besha found a huge turn-on. “We don’t have to do anything for you.”

“Of course, of course.” Besha spoke with exaggerated, ironic meekness now. “But perhaps just, well . . . out of the goodness of your hearts, you might deign to be kind?”

Tilrey sat down on the other couch and patted the cushion beside him, looking beseechingly at Gersha—who, with a huff of exasperation, seated himself. The Councillor’s cheeks were bright pink again as he said, “Don’t you have anything else to fantasize about, Besha? A porn stream to watch, or something?”

Tilrey rested one bracing hand on Gersha’s knee. _I’m here. Nothing bad can happen._ “Fir Linbeck,” he said, turning back to Besha, “I’m sure you’ve noticed that my Fir is very sensitive about things like praise for his physical appearance. He finds it belittling when you suggest that you’d enjoy seeing our intimacies, which I imagine is why you persist in doing it.”

Besha reddened now, too. “My, we’re full of delicate phrasing, aren’t we? A few months in the Sector and the fuck-piece is talking like a Councillor.”

His eyes flew to Gersha, clearly to savor the effect of the crude language on him, as he fumbled in his tunic pocket and fished out a sap vial. “But you _are_ still a good little piece, aren’t you, Rishka?” he asked, pouring the contents into his palm. He held it out, his blue eyes cold on Tilrey’s. “Or would you find it ‘belittling’ to drink this?”

“Don’t call him ‘Rishka.’” Gersha’s eyes were blazing, his knee trembling under Tilrey’s palm. “That’s what _I_ call him.”

Besha sniggered. “You think I haven’t noticed? Anyway, you told me not to call him ‘Nettsha’ anymore, so—”

“And Rishka, you aren’t taking sap from him!” Gersha leaned forward to block Tilrey from reaching for Besha’s outstretched hand, though Tilrey hadn’t moved toward it. “You’re done with that.”

He drew himself up and addressed Besha again, his voice icy with high-Upstart dignity. “You don’t come into my home and address Tilrey that way, _ever_. I don’t care what Verán used to let you do to him. He’s a free citizen, he’s my secretary, and any respect he shows you is his choice.”

This was headed in the wrong direction, Tilrey realized abruptly—toward a brawl, or whatever equivalent of a brawl two buttoned-up, tea-drinking Councillors were capable of. They needed guidance.

Besha had his mouth open to retort. He froze as Tilrey roped an arm around Gersha’s waist and gave him a gentle, warning kiss on the lips.

“Trust me,” Tilrey whispered, his breath on Gersha’s cheek, one hand firm on the small of his Councillor’s back. Then he asked out loud, so Besha would hear, “Do _you_ have some sap for me, Gersha, love? You have precedence.”

Gersha stiffened in Tilrey’s grip, but didn’t struggle. “I don’t want to perform that stupid ceremony.”

“But _I_ do, Fir. I miss it sometimes.” Keeping one eye on Besha, who was watching them intently, Tilrey reached into his jerkin for the vial of sap he’d stowed there beforehand. He held it out. “You give it to me.”

Gersha made another breathy sound to convey his disdain for the whole business. But he took the vial, uncapped it, and poured the sap into his palm. “If that’s what you insist on, love. I really wish we could be done with this whole idiotic feudal . . . thing . . .”

He broke off, his breath hitching, as Tilrey slipped off the couch, onto his knees, and bent to lick the sap. The contact made Gersha tremble, but he didn’t pull his hand away.

Gulping down the sweet, musty stickiness, Tilrey could almost hear Besha craning forward to watch, his own breath quickening. It was absurd how much this particular display turned Upstarts on. Tilrey folded Gersha’s fingers over the still-sticky palm, kissed the knuckles, and then crawled over to grab Besha’s proffered hand in turn.

Besha winced in surprise. But when he realized what was happening, he went limp and let Tilrey’s tongue explore the sensitive skin of his palm, a purr of pleasure swelling his throat. “Oh, that’s _nice_. I think the boy’s found a solution to our little disagreement, Gersha.”

Tilrey had no intention of getting sweet-drunk right now. He swallowed a modest portion and then steered Besha’s hand, still wet with sap, back toward the Councillor’s own mouth. Besha licked it obligingly, his pink tongue darting out with a relish that made Tilrey wonder if the man might have an unsung talent for sucking cock.

Time enough to find out. For now, Tilrey scrambled back across the carpet to Gersha. Instead of rising to reclaim his seat, he gently spread his Fir’s knees and reached under Gersha’s tunic for his cock.

Gersha gasped, already hard, as Tilrey fitted his palm to the shaft and began to work him. “This isn’t—I don’t _want_ ,” he sputtered half-heartedly, making no move to push Tilrey out from between his thighs. “Not with _him_ there.”

Behind them, Besha laughed with a hectic note of arousal. “Don’t mind me,” he said, his breath catching on the last word in a way that told Tilrey he’d already started to pleasure himself. “Just . . . let me watch.”

Gersha grimaced and seemed about to object. But when Tilrey licked deftly around the head, he went silent except for harsh, desperate breaths. The sounds of Besha’s breathing thickened, echoing Gersha’s, as Tilrey slid the whole length of his Councillor’s cock into his throat.

They’d done this countless times, but Tilrey never got tired of how quickly and thoroughly his wet, eager mouth made Gersha come undone. Usually Gersha made a valiant effort to keep his hands by his sides, or on Tilrey’s shoulders, until he was very close to coming, because “I don’t want to choke you.” But this time his fingers tangled themselves in Tilrey’s hair right off, thumbs digging into Tilrey’s temples and jerking his head to and fro, setting a fierce rhythm.

For few seconds Tilrey just rolled with it, focusing on breathing. Having his mouth fucked was nothing new, if not especially pleasant.

But soon the pressure of Gersha’s thumbs and the snap of his hips and the rasp of his breathing sent an electric charge shivering down Tilrey’s spine. He twitched up into Gersha’s next thrust, feeling his own cock harden. The constant yank on his hair caused a sweet, stinging ache that brought tears to his eyes, and he could hear Besha moaning with mounting excitement.

When Gersha came, buried deep in his throat, Tilrey swallowed his lover’s seed, patting Gersha’s thigh to reassure him he didn’t need to apologize for his vehemence.

A faint, plaintive sound came from Gersha’s throat. “You—I—green hells.”

“Shh, Fir.” Tilrey tucked Gersha back in his trousers, smoothed the tunic over his still-tumescent cock, and got up, a little unsteadily. His own cock remained iron between his legs, making every step shaky.

This would be so much easier if he were fully in control, like the “good little piece” he used to be. Did Besha even _want_ to see him aroused? The man had never shown much interest in anything Tilrey had to offer besides languorous, obedient submission.

Well, it was too late to worry about that now. Besha had a hand deep in his own trousers and was jerking himself off, head thrown back and mouth contorted, as unself-conscious as a schoolboy. He looked close to his climax.

Tilrey knelt and placed his hand on top of Besha’s moving one. The little Councillor went rigid with shock, his watery blue eyes popping open. But when Tilrey gently unfolded the man’s fingers from around his straining cock, Besha understood, spread his thighs, and pulled Tilrey closer, rutting up against him.

Tilrey bent to repeat the same around-the-tip maneuver he’d used on Gersha. Besha writhed into the cushions and groaned as if someone had stabbed him. Then his sap-sticky fingers were burrowing deep in Tilrey’s hair, tugging his head up to swallow the whole shaft, clamping him as tightly as Gersha had done.

Tilrey molded his lips to the man’s cock and let Besha set the rhythm. Once, twice: the slick organ slid out until Tilrey tasted semen on his lips, then thrust ruthlessly back into his throat.

On the third stroke, Besha’s hips lifted from the couch in a long, desperate spasm, accompanied by a wrenching moan. Tilrey swallowed the second gush of warmth. Then he rested his forehead on the man’s thigh, waiting for Besha’s fingers to loosen and release him.

His own cock was still annoyingly hard. He suckled Besha’s softening organ and swallowed again, resisting the urge to reach between his own legs and do what Besha had been doing.

Whores didn’t satisfy themselves without being told. And, regardless of what he’d told Gersha, he’d do some whoring today if that was what it took to placate Besha without compromising his Fir’s dignity.

Tilrey had always found Besha attractive in an itching, irritating way, but the pleasure he actually took from Besha had never been sexual. It was all about subtly needling the young Councillor, playing on his fears and insecurities, and watching him squirm.

Now, though, tasting the man in his mouth, very conscious of Besha’s physical vulnerability, he wondered for the first time how it might feel to have Besha suck _him_ off, or even to jam his cock between the man’s smirking lips and ride him that way. What kind of whore would Besha make? Judging by the abandon he’d shown when Gersha fucked him that night in the Southern Range, not a bad one.

Damn it, now he’d never get himself under control.

Behind them, Gersha cleared his throat.

Both of them startled a bit, though Besha was still lax with the aftermath of his climax. He released his grip on Tilrey, eased himself out of his mouth, and collapsed back on the couch with a happy sigh.

“I see what you mean when you say the boy’s bright, Gersha,” he breathed, closing his eyes. “He’s _very_ good at problem solving.”

Gersha, whose after-glow seemed to have dissipated in record time, didn’t dignify that with an answer. “I’m going to run a bath,” he said sourly. “If the two of you like, you can join me.”

***

Lounging against the tiled wall, watching Tilrey undress through the wafting steam, Besha decided he wanted something new.

His life was so dull, even the good parts of it. Tilrey was beautiful, yes, but he’d watched Tilrey strip dozens of times. He’d enjoyed the boy’s mouth dozens of times, too—not that it wasn’t still incredibly _good_ , but the pleasure had lost its piquancy. It needed that edge of newness and danger.

He wanted something like their first time.

The first time Tilrey ever sucked Besha off, they’d been at a gathering of six or seven Island Councillors at Majority Leader Verán’s home. Verán kept teasing Besha about how he couldn’t keep his eyes off the gorgeous kettle boy. Finally, the old man nudged Tilrey off his lap and said, “Go, get on your knees, and satisfy Besha before he explodes.”

Besha had been mortified; everybody was looking at them. The other Councillors already treated him like a second-class colleague, someone to do their dirty work for them. He didn’t want to become part of the entertainment.

But the ravishing boy was kneeling before him and unfastening Besha’s trousers. And Besha was so achingly hard he could barely see straight, much less object. He closed his eyes and gave himself to the embrace of that warm, expert, miraculous mouth, doing his best to pretend there was no audience.

When it was over, and the boy swallowed his load and tucked him in again, and Besha opened his eyes and saw everybody staring—verdant hells, he’d wanted to sink through the floor. But it was absolutely fucking worth it.

Okay, so maybe his shame had even given the moment a special spice. Sometimes there was just no way around humiliation. But if Besha was going to endure the unsexy humiliation of telling Verán he wanted to break ranks and vote for that Notification bill, and the further humiliation of explaining that choice to his wife, then he damn well deserved something special tonight.

Tilrey dropped his briefs to the floor and stepped down into the tub, moving gracefully as a performer. His cock was slightly hard, Besha noticed, and obscenely big. Had he ever seen the lad’s cock properly hard before? He wasn’t sure, but now he had, he wanted more than a glimpse.

Gersha hunched in the steam, not bothering to watch Tilrey’s artful display. He’d already been naked and submerged when they came in.

Besha pushed off the wall and strode to the edge of the tub. Standing directly in Gersha’s line of vision, he unfastened his tunic with leisurely motions, let it fall, and began on his trousers. _Try not to notice_ that.

Halfway through the striptease, Gersha finally looked up—and down just as quickly. “You’re fucking annoying,” he muttered.

Besha grinned, pleased to see that Tilrey was watching him with apparent amusement. “And you, love, are no fun.”

“Don’t use that word on me.”

“Which, ‘fun’?” Besha tossed his briefs aside and stepped down into the steam. He seated himself as close to Gersha as he dared. “I seem to recall you using some interesting words on me when your cock was buried inside me in the Southern Range."

Gersha raised his eyes again—sea-green and glistening, with those upturned corners and sleepy lids that Besha had always found particularly irresistible. “If I remember correctly, I did not use a single word on you,” he said. “My reactions were nonverbal, and if they hadn’t been, they would have been rude.”

Besha opened his mouth to say bring it on, he wanted to hear the rudest names Gersha could call him.

But Tilrey gave him a glare. “With all due respect, Fira, you’re starting to sound like a couple of bickering schoolboys, not Councillors of the Republic with important business to conduct.”

“Business?” Besha flicked water at the boy. “That’s the last thing I want to discuss. I already know what Gersha wants me to do. And if you had any sense, you’d know you’ve finally pushed me too far.”

“Are you thinking Verán might censure you or even expel you from the Party if you swing on this vote, Fir?” Tilrey had narrowed his eyes, looking for all the world like someone who had any business doing politics.

“It’s not Verán I’m worried about.” Besha held his palm over a jet, enjoying the pressure. “The old man’s losing his grip; he’ll probably retire in a few years—and as for Magistrate Linden, he’s on his last legs. I have enough supporters of my own to form a splinter group if I have to.”

“Do you really?”

“Of course, lad.” The boy’s undivided attention made Besha want to brag a little. “But,” he admitted, “the problem is my lovely wife, Davita. She watches me very closely, and she’s sharper than Verán these days. She can tell someone’s been steering my votes, and she’s finally figured out it’s you, love.” He patted Gersha’s knee where it broke the water.

His colleague flinched hard. Besha went on, pleased by the reaction: “She’s asking me questions, very inconvenient questions, about why you have such a hold on me. So far I’ve managed to put her off, but it’s taking all my cleverness. If I vote yes on your silly egalitarian bill, the questions will start again.”

Gersha didn’t deign to respond, but Tilrey still gazed at Besha in that intense way that made Besha both excited and uneasy. “That is a problem, Fir,” he said. “But I’m sure we can find a solution if we work together.”

“I’m supposed to take political advice from him, the expert on encryption? Or from you, the expert on cock sucking? I’ll work it out myself, thanks, _if_ I have to.” Besha let his eyes drift to Gersha. “Frankly, when I came here, I hoped to find an _inspiration_ to risk my career and my marriage, not ridicule and opposition.”

Gersha just looked sullen. The boy asked, “And what might ‘inspire’ you, Fir?”

Besha felt his jaw tighten; he was _not_ going to leave without a bit of excitement. He addressed his answer to Gersha, the one who was really in charge: “I want to see the two of you together, the way you promised me last time. I want to see you take him.”

Gersha said flatly, “No.”

“Fine. If you prefer it the other way, I’ll watch the lad take you.”

This time Gersha simply shook his head, his tight mouth and arched brows telling Besha what he thought of the request.

“So, what’s left? I’ve had the boy dozens of times. You’ve had me, and that was fun, but you seem to be taking all the other possibilities off the table. Should I have _you_?”

Gersha threw a plaintive look at Tilrey, who said, “I don’t think he’s ready for that, Fir.”

“Well, I’m not just taking _you_ again. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re a great fuck, but at this point it’s a bore—unless he watches _._ ” Besha appealed to Gersha, imagining him stewing with mortified jealousy. “Will you watch me take your little secretary? That might be fun.”

Gersha’s face had turned the color of bleeding-raw beef. “No.”

Gah, he was running out of options. “Or the boy could fuck _me_ while you watched—how about that?” Besha suggested. “You seem to like seeing me prone.”

Gersha shook his head again; words seemed to have deserted him.

The boy edged close to him and said, “Fir, I think Besha’s being fairly flexible.”

“ _Very_ flexible,” Besha amended. He was actually a bit shocked at himself for suggesting the last possibility. It wasn’t Tilrey’s place to fuck him or any Upstart, and the boy was clearly made for submission. But the look on Gersha’s face might be worth it, and the boy did have that ridiculously big cock, and _oh shit,_ now he’d started thinking about how that cock looked hard, and having it inside him, he couldn’t stop.

“That’s not the point!” Gersha’s voice, practically shouting, disrupted the reverie. “The point is, you’re asking _me_. If you want Tilrey to fuck you, why don’t you ask him?” His eyes flew to the boy, gleaming with rage. “And why don’t _you_ stop sitting there pretending you don’t have a say? I don’t own you.”

“He works in your office, so you might as well own him,” Besha said.

“Really? And if Verán practically gave you and me our Council seats, does that mean he owns us?”

Besha spread his hands. “The whole system’s based on patronage. Anyway, Tilrey’s a Laborer. He likes taking orders, and he does it so well.” He looked to the boy for confirmation, remembering all the times they’d played their little role-playing game. “You don’t want to make the decisions, do you, love?”

Gersha made a furious, harsh noise in his throat. “If you believe that, you’re a fool. Did you forget everything that happened in the Southern Range? He _orchestrated_ it.”

Besha did dimly remember Tilrey bossing them both around that evening. But he’d been so sap-drowned a toddler could have told him what to do. Later, after Besha had coaxed Gersha into fucking him, Tilrey had shown him that scarf and started going on about treason and delivering veiled threats. But that was all on Gersha’s orders, obviously.

“You give him a lot of credit,” he said. “Anyway, if the lad’s not always a bottom, then maybe he can fuck me.”

Gersha’s voice just kept rising. “You’re still missing the point! You don’t even see him. Have you ever, in all the times you’ve fucked him, made him come?”

Besha wondered idly if Tilrey still had that erection under the water. “Why would I? That’s his job. Anyway, he never asked me to.”

Gersha turned back to the boy. “Would you please tell him he’s a selfish, self-absorbed idiot?”

With two pairs of eyes on him, Tilrey stood up, water cascading down his strapping form. (His cock had softened, Besha noticed sadly.) “You _both_ seem very interested in telling me what to do.”

“This whole evening was your idea, unless you’ve forgotten!” Gersha couldn’t seem to calm down. “You chose that bill and got it through committee. I’m guessing you have a plan for what happens next. So why don’t you just tell us what it is?”

“Fine!” Tilrey waded over to Gersha and took hold of his shoulders. “Let’s start here.”

Besha was a little shocked by the boy’s assertive tone; maybe Gersha was, too, because he tensed up. But when Tilrey bent and kissed him, tongue slipping between his lips, he went pliant.

_Ah, that’s more like it._ Besha glimpsed pink as his colleague’s mouth opened into the boy’s. Tilrey’s hand roved through Gersha’s curls, tipping his head back. Gersha grunted, his fingers splayed on Tilrey’s arm, and Besha’s arousal became almost uncomfortable.

Tilrey was whispering something in Gersha’s ear. Besha thought he heard the word “love”—an odd choice.

But he had no time to think about it. The boy was coming in his direction now, skin slick and smelling sharply of chlorine. Before Besha could muster a snarky remark, Tilrey sat down beside him, took firm hold of his chin, and tipped his head back exactly as he’d done to Gersha.

Besha’s first, unthinking impulse was to struggle. The boy’s familiar touch was suddenly a stranger’s, powerful and aggressive— _demanding_. He squirmed as fingers gripped his shoulder, holding him in place; he twisted his face away.

Then he remembered how the boy’s hands had knotted the scarf around his wrists, that night in the Southern Range, and yanked his bound hands above his head. Maybe this more aggressive version of Tilrey wasn’t a stranger, after all.

The realization made Besha go almost as limp as Gersha had. He let Tilrey’s tongue claim his mouth, gasping eagerly as the boy sucked and nipped at his lower lip.

_You versatile pretty thing, you._ All the time, the boy had been holding this strength and passion in reserve, and now Besha went rigid with the need to feel it, all of it. To possess it. He flattened his palm on the boy’s wet chest and moaned into his mouth, “Take me.”

As the words emerged, Besha caught a glimpse of Gersha through the steam over Tilrey’s shoulder. His colleague didn’t look wild with jealousy, as Besha had hoped; his expression was unreadable.

Then a strong hand closed on his cock under the water, and Gersha ceased to exist. A voice rumbled in his ear, “Shall we go in the bedroom?”

“Please.”

Besha tried to sound commanding, because of course he was getting exactly what he’d asked for. But he wasn’t in control anymore, and the sensation made his world spin like hundred-proof rotgut liquor.

This was new, wasn’t it?

He wasn’t sure how he left the bath. He was only aware of the boy’s strong arms around him—guiding him up the tiled steps, steadying him when he lost his footing. The boy was rubbing him down with a towel, firm and businesslike. The boy was hard again, more than before, the magnificent organ jutting between his legs, and Besha resisted an impulse to go to his knees right there and take the whole thing in his mouth.

He wasn’t bad with his mouth, he’d been told. But he wasn’t going to do that again, and certainly not to a Drudge, no matter how lovely his cock was, or how ripe and tender the balls looked dangling demurely in that nest of soft reddish hair—no, no, no.

_At least I’m making him do the work,_ he told himself, as the boy led him into Gersha’s bedroom.

Last time, they’d been in _his_ bedroom, and the unfamiliarity of the setting gave Besha’s excitement an edge of trepidation. This neat, spartan room was where Gersha slept. This was the long-imagined space where Gersha fucked the boy, or the boy fucked him, or—

A cry of surprise burst from Besha’s lips as the boy heaved him up—his feet leaving the ground—and tossed him lightly onto the smooth white duvet. Then he laughed in delight, stretching out and feeling the fabric slide under his bare ass, suddenly aching to be touched there.

_Green hills and valleys, he’s strong. He could hurt me if he wanted._ “Oh, come and take me, Fir,” Besha called, still laughing, reaching for the boy, who’d gone around to the other side of the bed, apparently to fetch the lube. “I need your big cock inside me.”

But when Tilrey moved purposefully toward him across the bed, something in Besha quailed again. _He’s so fucking big._ He inched away, needy and shy at once, avoiding eye contact. Playing the part that had always been Tilrey’s in their old role-play, he whispered, “You’ll be gentle with me?”

Instead of answering, the boy fell on him. Before Besha quite knew what was happening, he was flat on his back, one wrist pinioned above his head, a strong thigh rubbing against his cock.

He yelped and started to struggle, but he relaxed when Tilrey eased some of his weight off. Without releasing Besha’s wrist, he bent to kiss him deeply, opening and exploring his mouth until Besha groaned, rutting against him.

When they came apart again, those pale blue eyes were on his, so close and intense and curious that Besha nearly withered under the scrutiny. He was suddenly conscious of having a puny, undistinguished body and a merely passable face. When he was younger, he’d been able to muster an angelic smile, but now the most one could say for him, according to his wife, was that he looked like an overgrown wayward schoolboy and had the morals to match.

As for Tilrey, while he’d always be a kettle boy to Besha, tonight he was most definitely a _man_. The feel of him, the smell of him, his sheer strength overwhelmed Besha’s senses as those lips brushed his ear, that stubbled cheek grazing his own.

_Green hells, yes, I’ll give myself to him. I’m not ashamed._

“How gentle do I need to be, exactly? Somehow I doubt you’re fresh, Fir.”

Besha answered with a long, ragged moan before he was able to find words. He could barely remember his first time being fucked, back in school. “No. Not fresh.”

“But I imagine you don’t find many occasions to get fucked these days, Fir Councillor?” Tilrey released Besha’s wrist and reached for the lube.

Besha knew what was coming. He still gasped as Tilrey rolled him backward and pressed his knees to his shoulders, contorting him unnaturally, leaving him shamefully, awkwardly exposed. He’d put the boy in this same position oh, so many times, relishing his surrender and even his discomfort.

“Turnabout is fair play, I suppose.” He flinched as a slick finger touched him, then relaxed as it teased gently around the edge of his hole. “Though I imagine I don’t look as pretty this way as you do.”

“You look just fine, Fir.” A wet kiss on the underside of his thigh. “And I’ll try to make sure you enjoy it.”

“It has been a while,” Besha breathed, trying not to tense as the boy’s finger began working its way inside him. “I’m very, ah! Very tender.”

That wasn’t the whole truth; he was tender because Davita had a thing for dildos and strap-ons, and she’d used one on him just last free-night. Given the length and girth of the boy’s cock, though, he still wasn’t ready to have it rammed inside.

He writhed as the boy’s finger found his prostate, still smarting from the shame of being held still in this position. But that shame was like the heat of a sauna, right on the sweet edge of discomfort. Anyway, this arrangement made it easier for Tilrey to grab Besha’s cock and pump it—which he did several times, mercilessly, before inserting his second finger.

Somewhere between the delicious burn of the second and third fingers, Tilrey paused in his work to beckon to Gersha. Out of the corner of his eye, through his haze of arousal and impatience, Besha could see his colleague—lurking in the corner of the room, wearing a robe and a not-at-all-fun scowl.

The boy said in an incongruously pleading voice, “At least sit at the foot of the bed, love. I meant what I told you.”

Besha twisted, spitted on Tilrey’s fingers. “Yes, do come watch, _love._ Take a front-row seat to my humiliat—oh fuck!” He gasped as the boy’s forefinger found that spot again.

Tilrey bent and sucked hard on Besha’s exposed throat for a few seconds, grazing it with his teeth. “Maybe there should be less talking from you, Fir. I think Gersha likes you better when you’re not capable of words.”

“Your wish is my command.” Besha laughed breathlessly as he saw that Gersha had settled himself at the foot of the bed, eyes still averted from them.

“Does he do this to you, Gersha?” he called over Tilrey’s shoulder. “Does he get you squirming like this? Because if you’re not taking advantage of all his talents, you’re—”

He broke off again, silenced this time by the bruising pressure of Tilrey’s mouth. The fingers had withdrawn, leaving him shamelessly slick and open. His thighs already ached like hell from being bent backward, and his cock was desperately engorged, and the prod of the boy’s similarly ready organ against his hip made him whimper and plead, “For fuck’s sake, _now_.”

The boy laughed into Besha’s mouth. “Ask me nicely, Fir?”

“Please. For the love of all that’s green, please _now_.” A moment ago, he’d still been a touch leery of that big cock, but now all he wanted was the pressure, the burn, the sense of fullness, even the pain.

And he wanted an audience, just like they’d had their first time. Besha could feel Gersha sneaking glances at them, his gaze hot and focused as a sunlamp, deliciously full of jealousy and contempt and perhaps a touch of arousal.

When Tilrey jammed Besha’s knees into the duvet and lined himself up and thrust in with a force that made Besha see white, there was nothing left but that heat. It was on Besha, in him. It enveloped them all.

***

Besha was a moaner, a whimperer, a keener. Gersha remembered that. He could look away all he wanted, or even close his eyes, but he’d still hear every stroke. He could even tell the deep ones from the shallow ones.

Right now Tilrey was setting a ruthlessly steady rhythm, penetrating Besha a little more with each thrust. Gersha recognized his lover’s accelerating, athletic breathing pattern; he knew exactly how it felt to be on the receiving end of all that exertion. The fullness; the need; the strange, blissful, floating loss of control. Despite his best efforts at detachment, his cock twitched, and he resisted an impulse to grab it through the robe and jerk himself off.

He closed his eyes again and tried to hear Tilrey’s whisper in his ear, back in the tub: _I’m going to enjoy him, but it’s just sex. I love you._

Gersha had no reason in the world to doubt that. He’d moved past petty jealousy, and he was all too used to seeing his lover handled by other men. But to see him _enjoying_ another man, as Tilrey had phrased it—well, yes, that was different. That was harder.

He opened his eyes and made himself really see.

The warm light of the bedside lamp drew rosy tints from Besha’s pasty skin and golden ones from Tilrey’s. Besha’s bony feet had hooked themselves over Tilrey’s back, while the pistoning of Tilrey’s hips highlighted the sculpting of his gluteal muscles. Tilrey’s head drooped forward so the dark-blond hair obscured his face. Besha’s head was thrown back, his mobile mouth contorted with agony or ecstasy or both.

Would this really work to tear Besha away from Verán, to bind him to them in an alliance that was based on more than fear? Gersha shuddered at the thought of Besha’s sharp-eyed, suspicious, conservative wife. Surely Tilrey wasn’t hoping to convert _her_ by the same method? But he must have a plan in mind; he always did.

Balls-deep in Besha, Tilrey went abruptly still, as if his cock weighed a hundred pounds. Gersha was familiar with this move, too. He wasn’t surprised when Besha’s moans and gasps turned to murmurs of “Please don’t stop” and “Don’t torture me.”

“In a moment.” One hand clamping down on Besha’s pinioned knee, Tilrey tangled the other in the man’s lank hair and pulled his head back further to expose his throat. After a kiss there, he released him—Besha whimpered—and reached back and said, “Gersha.”

Gersha understood; this was not a request to which he could or would ever say no. He scuttled across the bed and seized hold of Tilrey’s outstretched hand, pressing his dry palm to the sweaty one. “Go on.”

Tilrey snatched a ragged breath and began moving again—first slowly and deliberately, then with increasing abandon, slamming himself into the willing orifice. Besha’s attempts at speech frayed into cries.

When the thrusts spaced out, and Tilrey began arching his back and neck, his whole body a taut bow-string, Gersha pressed his thumb hard against Tilrey’s palm and whispered, “Now.”

His voice was too low for either of the others to hear through their frantic breathing. But Tilrey’s body understood the signal of permission they’d arranged. With a hoarse groan, he thrust home a last time, his slender waist straining backward against the forward motion of his hips.

His nails dug into Gersha’s palm as he found his release in a spasm that seemed to freeze time itself. Gersha closed his eyes and let his senses white out in a strange burst of vicarious pain and pleasure.

Time began again. Tilrey slumped on top of Besha, his hand going limp and slipping free of Gersha’s. After a lengthy, satisfied sigh, he pulled out and eased Besha into a supine position, his tousled head coming to rest on the man’s collarbone.

Gersha felt a prickle of jealousy, because he’d been in Besha’s place so many times before, with his spent, sleepy lover curled up against him. But the jealousy was more memory than reality, because—well, he’d never _seen_ Tilrey taking his pleasure before, not from this objective angle. And the sight had stolen his breath.

_Just sex._ Undoubtedly. Still, Tilrey had been carried away, carried away enough to forget to give Besha his own satisfaction.

Gersha felt a smile curve his lips as his colleague squirmed under the boy’s weight, muttering something plaintive about how he was being crushed and his hip was killing him.

And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, Gersha crawled over to them. “Easy,” he said, bending to run his fingers through Tilrey’s hair, starting at the nape.

He kissed Tilrey’s shoulder, which drew an irritable grunt from Besha: “I’m fucking here, you know! Your big oaf of a secretary won’t get off me.”

“Take it as a compliment; you made him forget himself.” Gersha gave Tilrey a last pat and addressed him: “Come along now, love. I’ll finish up for you.”

Tilrey rolled off Besha, leaning pliantly into Gersha’s touch. His pupils were blown, his gaze cloudy, as he asked, “You sure? Don’t mind?”

Gersha took a moment to savor the rare sight of his lover out of control. Then he kissed Tilrey’s forehead, nodded, and faced Besha.

The man was trying to sit up, wincing, his cock still stiff and crimson between his legs. “This hardly seems sporting,” he said breathlessly.

Gersha wedged a couple of pillows under Besha’s shoulders, guiding him to lean back. Each time he touched the man, a slight shock of revulsion radiated up his arm. Despite their earlier intimacies, he wouldn’t have been amazed if Besha had suddenly decided to snarl and spit in his face.

And Besha’s voice _was_ almost a snarl as he said, “The two of you excel at torturing me, don’t you? Maybe that’s your real area of expertise.”

The words were cold, but Besha’s face was as flushed as Tilrey’s, sweaty hair streaking his forehead, eyes wet with unspoken, unsatisfied need. Gersha felt something oddly like tenderness.

“So,” he said, “you think it’s ‘unsporting’ to fuck someone and leave him unsatisfied? I don’t suppose you’ve ever done such a thing yourself?”

Besha’s eyes narrowed to blue slits. “Fuck you and your nursery moralizing, Gersha. A whore doesn’t expect to be satisfied, right, Tilrey?”

Collapsed beside them, Tilrey made a sound that suggested he wasn’t ready to argue points of sexual etiquette.

“But fine, you’ve taught me a lesson. I wish I’d made him use his cock on me before, because that was fucking amazing.” Besha made as if to rise, groaning a little. He froze in place when Gersha reached for his groin. “What do you think you’re—”

Rather than try to explain—if he hesitated at all, repulsion would take over—Gersha bent and took Besha’s cock in his mouth. Gripping it firmly around the base, he circled the head with his tongue and was rewarded with a loud groan and a buck of Besha’s hips.

“Don’t fucking bite me.” Besha’s voice was choked with amazement.

“Don’t tempt me.” Tilrey had done this time after time, even just now in the living room. He could do it, too.

“ _Shit_ ,” Besha said, but he was already far gone, and now it was all keening again.

Gersha had to admit, as he let muscle memory guide his movements, that all that noise was flattering and encouraging. Maybe even arousing.

He noted in a distant way that Besha’s smaller cock was easier to take down his throat than Tilrey’s; that the man’s secretions weren’t actually foul with the sweat of ambition (as he’d somehow imagined); and that the incessant squirming and moaning were making his own cock harden.

He nearly pulled free when Besha began jerking his head peremptorily back and forth, fingers knotted in his curls. But he caught himself and managed to relax and breathe through his nose, because Besha’s sounds made it clear he was almost there.

The man was spitting out words now, too: “No, you’re not getting away from me, none of that—you’re going to oblige me, you little slut of a high-named—agggh!”

And Besha came with a final snap of his hips and a gratified groan. It took him several seconds to loosen his grip on Gersha’s hair. Gersha gagged and swallowed some of the warm load involuntarily, though he’d promised himself he wouldn’t.

When Besha finally released him, he spat the rest into his palm. He meant to go wash his hands. But his body felt heavy, and he stayed where he was, with his forehead a few centimeters from Besha’s naked hip and Tilrey on his other side, listening to both men’s even breathing. His own cock was a hard weight against his thigh, but the need wasn’t yet urgent.

After a bit, Besha’s fingers crept into his hair again, stroking it tentatively this time. Gersha didn’t pull away; that felt nice.

“So I’m a slut now, am I?” he asked, more amused than offended.

“Just a word, you know, my esteemed colleague. Heat of passion.” Besha cleared his throat. “As you pointed out, there are many rude words you could call me.”

Laughter swelled Gersha’s throat. “And yet I refrained from using them.”

“Oh yes, such self-restraint. Such decorum. Did you know, you were Davita’s first choice for a husband?” Besha chuckled at the expression on Gersha’s face. “She was heartbroken; she was about to propose when you declared your celibacy. She still sings your praises to me: _Such lovely eyes, such dignity, such a flawless genetic profile!_ One of these days I’ll tell her who you really are.”

Gersha tensed, but Besha’s tone didn’t suggest a serious threat. “By all means,” he said. “I’d hate for your esteemed Fir’n Wife to hold false notions of me.”

Besha laughed aloud. “I knew you couldn’t be uptight all twenty-four hours of the day. Where’d you learn to suck cock that way?”

Tilrey said in a drowsily thick voice, “Where do you think, Fir?”

“Why am I even asking?”

Resting between them, Gersha felt comfortable and yes, even safe, something he didn’t think he’d ever felt in Besha’s presence before. He closed his eyes and slid toward sleep—only to be woken abruptly, a few minutes later, by a rush of blood to his cock.

He reared up, then realized the hand cinched around him was Tilrey’s. Besha was still reclining on the pillows, his eyelids drooping languidly.

“I couldn’t help noticing that _you_ didn’t get satisfied, Fir.” Through Gersha’s trousers, Tilrey gave him a hard pump that made him gasp for breath.

“Mmm,” Besha said. “You’re right. He wasn’t satisfied.”

Hot tightness pooled in Gersha’s belly, demanding release, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to be “satisfied” with Besha right there, staring. “I’m tired.”

“ _That_ tired, Fir?” Tilrey gave him another devilish pump, then bent and murmured in his ear, “Just take me. I’m ready. I think he wants to see that.”

Gersha glanced at Besha; he looked way too interested in the two of them, intent as a predator. “Don’t we need to give him something to come back for?”

He’d tried to pitch his voice low, but Besha gave a bark of laughter. “I don’t think you need to worry about me not coming back—if I’m invited.”

“You should be so lucky, Fir. C’mon, love.” Tilrey was stroking Gersha’s back. He eased Gersha’s robe off and gave some more attention to the burgeoning organ whose needs were becoming urgent indeed.

Then, satisfied with his handiwork, he flipped himself over onto elbows and knees and spread his legs. “C’mon, Fir. I’m open, and I’ve been well satisfied. Take your pleasure and don’t worry about me.”

Gersha didn’t want to be aroused by those familiar words of submission, or by the sight of Tilrey offering his ass. His cock had other ideas, though, swelling obstreperously between his legs. With a fierce resolution not to look at Besha, not once, he mounted his secretary, nudged himself into position, and thrust in far harder than he’d meant to.

Tilrey and Besha gasped at the same time, long and eagerly.

After that, control became something Gersha had had long ago, in a dream of another life. He fucked frantically, pushing Tilrey’s face into the bedclothes, barely retaining enough self-awareness to grab the boy’s cock and bring it to life—and even that was mostly muscle memory.

He was proud of himself for making Tilrey come before he did. But, as he sped toward his own climax, his rhythm growing relentless, he made the mistake of looking up.

Besha was looking straight at them, one hand working between his legs. His face showed a lazy blankness, but his cheeks were flushed. When Gersha’s back arched, and his cock thrust home so hard it seemed permanently lodged inside Tilrey, their eyes were locked.

It gave Gersha’s orgasm a rawness he’d never felt before, the pleasure sharpened by the sting of being _seen._ Yet when he collapsed a moment later, he didn’t feel waterlogged with shame, just spent and happy and ready to sink into a well-earned sleep.

Maybe this arrangement wasn’t so bad after all.

***

Just before five, Tilrey woke to hear Besha slide out from under the covers and pad off to the bathroom, presumably to gather his clothes. Midwinter darkness reigned beyond the shutters, as it would for most of the day.

He’d spent the night with Gersha’s head pillowed on his chest, waking at one point to find Besha curled around him from behind, so that he was caught between them. Besha’s breath was hot against Tilrey’s neck, his hands febrile, grasping and kneading as he dreamed. His movements made Gersha stir uneasily, and Tilrey stroked his Fir’s curls until his breathing settled into the proper rhythm again.

In their own ways, they were both strangely lovely men, so much nervous energy and insecurity packed into slight packages. It was fun to pull Besha’s strings and admire their tensile strength, watching them snap back instead of breaking.

But right now there were more practical matters to worry about.

Tilrey pulled on a robe, tied it loosely, and intercepted Besha in the living room. “Leaving so soon, Fir? Don’t want to wake up beside us?”

Besha actually looked apologetic. Already in his shirt and trousers, he pushed his arms into the tunic. “It’s not that. I told Gunde—my daughter—that I’d see her in the morning and take her back to her school dorm.”

It wasn’t easy imagining Besha as a loving father, but the look on his face told Tilrey that seeing his daughter was more than a duty to him. “Of course,” he said, settling himself on a couch and pulling his feet up. “But Fir, how are we going to put your wife’s concerns to rest?”

Besha looked as if something had stung him. “Gersha and I will discuss that. It’s no concern of yours, lad.” He cleared his throat, then added more kindly, “I think you’ve _more_ than done your job.”

Tilrey hugged his knees. Until now, he’d maintained the charade that he was simply executing Gersha’s orders, but this was getting ridiculous. Besha should be smart enough to grasp the truth. “No, Fir. My job is advancing Gersha’s interests even when he doesn’t know how to advance them himself. You may have noticed he’s better with code than he is with people.”

“He seems to have done all right for himself in terms of getting votes lately.”

_Because I’m coaching him._ “Gersha’s a brilliant man, Fir, and he trusts me because he knows there are certain things I’m good at, too.” Tilrey rolled his eyes at Besha’s expression. “Not _just_ that. A whore has to know people, Fir. Know what they want and how to give it to them. I knew what you wanted, didn’t I?”

Buttoning his tunic, Besha went a little pink. “You made some good guesses.”

“Well, I’ve been watching your wife, too, Fir.” Tilrey lowered his bare feet to the carpet, rose lazily, and stretched, feeling Besha’s eyes on him. “I know she’s a woman of . . . appetites, and she’s older than you are, and she married you partly because she thought she could control you.”

Besha stiffened, but Tilrey went on before the Councillor could object: “And I’m only saying all this because it means, Fir, that your Fir’n Wife understands appetites. If you tell her about this . . . thing we have, if you tell her you’re hopelessly infatuated with Gersha or with me, or with both of us—well, I think she’ll believe you. She’ll see that as a plausible reason for voting with Gersha, because she thinks you’re weak enough to let your appetites call the shots.”

Besha straightened his tunic with a hard jerk. “You have no right to analyze my marriage, you insolent little . . .”

“Whore? Piece? Slut?” Tilrey sauntered close enough to make the Councillor acutely aware of how much taller he was. To remind him of the strength he’d felt last night. “Call me what you like, Fir—it doesn’t bother me. I have the utmost respect for both you and your wife. But we both know there are certain things you don’t want her to know about you.”

A shudder moved over Besha’s shoulders. “You’re right,” he said after a moment, staring at Tilrey’s feet. “Davita knows I’m not . . . ideologically pure the way she is. If I tell her it’s all about fucking the two of you, she’ll believe me, yeah. But then she’ll give me a scolding and expect me to come to my senses.”

Tilrey flicked a lock of sandy hair out of the Councillor’s eyes, making Besha tense. Instead of moving away, he used his forefinger to trace the line of the Councillor’s cheekbone.

“Marriage is all about compromise, isn’t it?” he said. “Maybe Davita will have to reconcile herself to the fact that you can’t always be her puppet in the Council chamber.”

“I’ve never been _anybody’s_ puppet.” Despite the irritation in the words, Besha was leaning into Tilrey’s touch now, molding himself to it. “And how do you suggest that I reconcile her, from your vast repository of whorish expertise?”

Cupping Besha’s face, Tilrey tipped it up so their eyes could meet. “I think what Davita needs is to see that Gersha isn’t any threat to her. She needs to know him better, to watch him interact with you, so she can be sure this is just a silly infatuation that will pass. Maybe if you invited her to tea with us?”

Besha’s breath caught, but he didn’t pull away. “ _Tea_. Really?”

“Some say tea is the lubricant of civilization, Fir.”

“You’re an absolute devil of a boy, you know that?” Besha seized hold of Tilrey’s hand and pulled him down into a rough kiss, grinding his newly hard cock against Tilrey’s thigh. “How can you just stand there suggesting that so coyly, as if we hadn’t just . . .”

He broke off and pulled away, shaking his head. “Well, I suppose it’s a thought. If you can do what you did to me last night, I suppose you can charm my wife. But this time, _just_ tea.”

“Just tea,” Tilrey said, and saved his grin for when Besha wasn’t looking.


End file.
